Sometimes I Feel Like a Horse
by zerolikesice
Summary: Set early S1. Ryan bonds with Captain Oats.


**Summary:** Set early S1. Ryan bonds with Captain Oats. A study in run-on sentences.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Disclaimer Part Deux:** My first fanfiction. Read at your own risk.

It's an otherwise normal Thursday evening when it happens. Kirsten asks the boys to set the table, and Ryan dutifully lines up placemats, plates, silverware, and glasses on the kitchen table while Seth follows him around, carrying napkins and expounding on his latest Summer-related saga. Kirsten rolls her eyes at her son, glad that, with Ryan around, the job will get done, and turns her attention to counting out the cash to hand over to the Chinese food delivery person.

Ryan quietly asks what they'll have to drink, and pulls the requested bottles of water, juice, and Mountain Dew from the fridge. As he turns to head back towards the table, Sandy enters, perhaps more stealthily than usual, the sound of his footsteps drowned by Seth's incessant rambling. His pleasure at seeing the boys helping ready the table for dinner is more than he can contain, and he slaps Ryan on the back, ready to commend him on a job well done.

"Rya…."

And he trails off as Ryan rockets from beneath his touch.

The instant his hand makes contact with Ryan's shoulder blade, Ryan leaps forward, abandoning the bottles, which bounce away in all directions across the floor. He stumbles, catching a foot on one of the bar stools, and just barely prevents himself from taking a nosedive into the tile floor by means of a well-timed grab at the corner of the island.

Ryan scrambles to get his feet beneath him, disentangles his ankle from the offending stool, and slowly stands. He cautiously raises his eyes to find, now that his initial shock has worn off, exactly what he feared.

Three pairs of eyes staring straight at him.

Sandy stands motionless by the fridge, his hand still poised in the air, suspended at the exact height at which it made contact with Ryan's back. He's disappointed and angry and upset and sorry all at once, and damned if the kid isn't about to have a heart attack, because just look at him there, like some wild animal, with his wide eyes and heaving chest, ready to dart away at the next movement, and Sandy's kicking himself for not having considered it beforehand, because the kid's only been here for a couple months and did Sandy really think Ryan'd just be able to let all that stuff go?

Kirsten isn't much better. Worse, perhaps. She's wearing that, "oh you poor, kicked puppy" look and it's obvious that, if he hasn't earned her respect or her love, Ryan has certainly earned her pity. She holds her fingertips to her lips, propped up by an arm wrapped tightly around her stomach, and seems somewhere between fear for him and fear _of_ him, and Ryan isn't sure which he dislikes more.

And Seth, of course, in the corner behind the table, wringing the napkins around his hands, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, his eyes nervously darting between his mom, his dad, and his obviously psycho foster brother, because, honestly, who freaks out about getting a pat on the back?

A sheen sweat has broken out on Ryan's forehead, and he can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, his legs, his neck, his head, screaming, "RUN damnit! RUN!" And he swallows thickly and forces himself to calm down, tries to fight the rising panic, first from the shock of the touch and now from the overwhelming fear and embarrassment of having been found out.

He feels his legs shake, unsteadily, and finally settles for the best he can do to try and ease the tension, to break the unbearable silence in the room. He feels his face flush as he ducks his head and forces a half-smile, choking out, "Uh… Sorry. You, uh… you caught me off-guard."

_Off-guard_? Sandy thinks. Yeah, no kidding. He's lucky he didn't take a fist to the face, for all he knows about the kid's typically reactions to sudden, unexpected contact. But at the same time he's sick inside to think that Ryan has a need to ever be _on _guard.

Ryan fights off a wave of nausea, steels himself for an impending lecture or apology, braces himself for the onslaught of pity he's sure is coming. He stoops and picks up the wayward beverages, and sets them down at the proper places at the table when finally, mercifully, the doorbell rings and the spell is broken and everyone rushes to return to normalcy, Sandy turning and striding briskly toward the door to pay the deliveryman, Kirsten snapping at Seth to, "Wash your hands before you sit down. _With soap_. I can tell how filthy they are from here." And Ryan is left to seat himself and uncap his bottle of soda and avert his eyes from everyone.

It's apparent to Ryan how awkward everyone feels at dinner. The conversation is forced, and Seth's bad jokes, and Kirsten's small talk, and Sandy's equally bad jokes, do nothing to ease Ryan's discomfort. He says nothing during the meal, picks at the food on his plate, and takes the first opportunity he sees to excuse himself and, after carefully dumping his uneaten food in the trashcan, rinsing off his plate, and placing it neatly in the dishwasher, makes a speedy retreat to the relative safety of the poolhouse.

//////////

Later that evening he mulls halfheartedly over his homework, somehow managing to try his hardest to focus while simultaneously trying not to focus at all. Occasionally he'll cautiously raise his eyes, without moving his head, to peer through his shaggy bangs through the glass walls of the poolhouse towards the Cohen's kitchen, only to find Sandy, or Kirsten, or sometimes Sandy and Kirsten, standing nervously at the doorway staring intently at him, uncertain in the newness of their relationship with him whether to advance or let Ryan be.

Ryan usually tolerates history homework well enough, but tonight the names and places and dates are getting mixed up in his head, and he can't concentrate and he keeps writing down all the wrong things. "1947 was the first year of the Cold War." _1993 was the first year my mom was drunk more often than sober_. "The Cuban Missile Crisis occurred in 1962." _My dad was arrested for armed robbery in 1995._

When Ryan finally gives up on his homework, and rises from his desk to get ready for bed, he's unsurprised to see both Sandy and Kirsten hovering in the kitchen, sending occasional, nervous glances towards the poolhouse doors.

Later that night, having showered and brushed his teeth, Ryan lies on his bed, watching the light reflected from the pool dancing across the ceiling. He'd turned the lights off in the poolhouse, but left the blinds up. He isn't ready to go to sleep. The bright glow of the numbers on his bedside clock informs him that it's 8:07 PM. He hears the poolhouse door shift and quickly shoves himself into a sitting position, his heart locked in his throat as he prepares for the lecture he knows is coming.

He braces himself for the impact of Sandy's stern words, or Kirsten's cloying tone, and is surprised to feel his mattress spring up and down as Seth launches himself onto the bed next to Ryan, and inquires, bouncing slightly, "Dude, what's up with all the doom and gloom in here? It's, like, not even eight-thirty."

Ryan slowly relaxes and slides down his headboard, softly muttering under his breath, "Sometimes, I feel like a horse."

Seth stops bouncing and stares hard at Ryan, then leaps off the bed and tears into the house, leaving Ryan confused and alone again in the dark. No sooner has Ryan settled down again on his back, however, then has Seth returned, his leggy gait making quick work of the distance between the house and Ryan's room.

Seth's eyes shine as he strides into the poolhouse, one arm outstretch to reveal the prize from his sudden and speedy journey.

"Here," says Seth. "Maybe he can help."

Ryan stares at the proffered plastic figure, the champion of Seth's childhood, and skeptically raises an eyebrow, asking, "You brought me Captain Oats?" Seth nods, and holds the horse out farther, willing Ryan to take it from his grasp. "But… why?" Ryan falters, confused.

Seth's eyes become serious, and his gaze darts around the room before it returns to Ryan, answering, "Because I figured if you feel like a horse, maybe you should talk to one. You'll understand each other." And with that Seth drops the toy in Ryan's lap, gives a definitive nod, and quietly exits the poolhouse, leaving Ryan feeling, if possible, more embarrassed than he had before.

Ryan will never know why Sandy and Kirsten never approach him that night, never pluck up their collaborative courage to venture out to the poolhouse, to force Ryan to confront some of his demons, to push the so obviously startling issue about his overwhelming reaction to a seemingly harmless gesture of love and pride. Ryan will wonder, but he will never know that Seth, upon entering the house that night, cordons off his parents in their bedroom while assuring them that, "The Captain's got this one. It's best if you leave them alone."

//////////

Ryan stares at the plastic horse standing stoically on his bedside table. The numbers on his clock shine "11:33" now, and the lights in the main house have finally been turned off, the Cohens all retreating to bed. _Who talks to a toy, anyway?_ Ryan thinks. How lonely had Seth been, throughout his childhood, to place so much confidence in Captain Oats?

_Sometimes I feel like a horse_, he mulls, grabbing the Captain off the table and rolling to rest on his back. He stares at the horse's beady, painted eyes, runs his thumb over the stiff mane, softly rolls the balls of the figurine's hocks, his knees, his tiny plastic fetlocks, between his fingers.

Back before he'd lived in Chino, before his dad had gone to jail, before his mom drank herself to sleep every night, before Trey had become hard and cold and far too realistic for Ryan's liking, back when they lived in Fresno, Dawn had sometimes taken the boys to the park to play.

On mild afternoons, when Dawn had returned from a good day at work, she'd pack snacks and drinks in a canvas bag, take each of her boys by the hand, and lead them across the train tracks to the playground by the elementary school. If they behaved at the park, and if Dawn was still in a good mood when they left, sometimes she'd walk them back home the long way, a few blocks north, to pass by the boarding stables.

Ryan and Trey, then still full of wonder and happiness, would press up against the white fencing, stretching handfuls of grass to the grazing horses beyond. Sometimes, if they were patient, one of the older, placid mares would approach, snuff their little fists and wrists and forearms, and gently mouth the grass from their hands, and Ryan and Trey would grin and quickly grab another tuft of grass, and another, and would continue to feed the horse as long as she'd stand there, while Dawn sat on the curb smoking and watching them play.

Once when they'd walked home by the stables, Ryan and Trey had come across a group of yearlings turned out to pasture, all legs and feet and ears, their gangly forms betraying the graceful animals they'd become. Ryan and Trey had eagerly stretched out their hands to the curious animals, brushing the soft velvet on their noses, until the young animals squealed in fright and excitement at the touch and charged away, bucking and twisting and throwing their heels in the air.

It would be another year before Frank would start to beat them, before Dawn would begin drinking herself to oblivion, before Trey's eyes would lose that spark and he would start telling Ryan to, "Suck it up, you little shit," when he cried.

//////////

_Sometimes, I feel like a horse_, thinks Ryan, looking Captain Oats in the eye. Just like a wild, flighty horse. Not like those fuzzy colts looking for a game, or the benignant mares enjoying the sun, but a wild, frenzied horse, tormented by fear and wanting nothing more than to run. Like a crazed stallion, beaten into submission time and time again, tied down and whipped until he foamed at the mouth and the whites of his eyes showed as he pulled frantically at the ropes. Sent to slaughter at an early age because no one wanted him, or wanted to deal with him. Beaten and pushed and harassed to the point where any human contact would send him straight into a full-blown, blind panic, fight or flight, and he'd either turn and kick and bite or spring forward and race away.

He was ashamed of himself, of his reaction, of what he'd done. He couldn't even stop to think anymore, just _think_ for christssake, because thinking never did any good when he was about to get punched again, and what's the point in mulling over the whys or what-ifs? A waste of valuable time he could be spending hitting back or trying to get away.

But tonight…. Things are different here. Doesn't he realize he's safe here? Can't his brain understand that the Cohen's house isn't like any of the other places he's lived? Hasn't it registered any of Sandy's ten or fifteen reassurances that he's safe here?

If his brain had given him just a half a second, he'd have realized it was Sandy, and not AJ, or Ricky, or Julian, or any one of the other half-dozen asshole boyfriends his mom had dated, coming to beat him for some transgression or another, or because he was drunk and itching for a fight, or just for fun. Just a simple, freaking half-second, and he'd have been able to appreciate the gesture for what it was, instead of turning the Cohen's evening meal into a precarious, awkward dance, where everyone tiptoed around and used soothing voices, trying not to spook the crazy, frenzied animal Ryan had become.

"What am I going to do?" Ryan asks the Captain, running his fingers lightly over the animal's arched neck. Sooner or later, Ryan thinks, the Cohen's will realize their mistake. Sandy will be forced to admit that maybe Kirsten was right all along, that their family is better off, safer, when Ryan isn't there. They'll come to him one morning, or maybe evening, with pity and guilt in their eyes, hanging on to one another for support, while Sandy forces out phrases like, "It's for the best" and "We're sorry things didn't work out," and Ryan will nod and pack his bag and go on his way, and he won't be too upset, not really, because he's known all along that something this good could never last.

_Maybe_, the Captain seems to say, sitting idly in Ryan's hands, _maybe you could talk to them_. And tell them what? Ryan thinks. That he's used to getting his ass handed to him? That usually a guy comes up at you from behind because he knows he'll be able to get a few solid hits in before you start fighting back? That he just as easily could have turned around and thrown a couple punches? That he's realized now, tonight, for the first time, with absolute certainty, that he really could be a danger to their family? That's he so broken and damaged and mistrustful that he can no longer recognize the difference between a harmless pat on the back and an attack?

Yeah, thinks Ryan. Great. That will really go over well.

_But Ryan_, Captain Oats' glossy eyes suggest, _even horses can change_.

Even horses can change… Is it really that simple?

//////////

Ryan smiles slightly to himself, a sudden pang of sadness and homesickness and longing surging through him as Theresa's familiar image floats into his mind. He's twelve years old, and she's just turned thirteen, and they're sitting at the park with their backs against a tree, watching a group of older boys play chicken nearby, gritting their teeth and swearing as they press their cigarette butts up against their wrists and fingernails.

"Idiots," says Theresa, motioning to the boys as they hiss and yank their bloodied hands away from the butts. She glances over at Ryan, grinning, and nudges him saying, "Aren't you glad you're not as dumb as those guys?" and Ryan ducks his head and nods noncommittally, unconsciously fingering his leather wrist cuff, underneath which he hides several fresh scars from his and Trey's most recent game.

Ryan clears his throat and glances upwards towards the sun, doing his best to change the subject by commenting, "I bet school's almost out. We can probably start heading back, if you want." He plants his hands on the ground and pushes himself upwards, stretching and brushing the dried grass from his pants before reaching his hand down to Theresa.

Theresa takes his hand and stands, her smile mischievous and she rolls her eyes at him and shakes her head. "Alright… so maybe you _are_ as dumb," she sighs, grinning, and looks pointedly at his hands, the one still traveling over the cuff around the wrist of other. Ryan's eyes follow her glance downwards and his hands suddenly freeze and drop to his sides. He raises his gaze slowly to her, blushing slightly and giving her a guilty half-smile.

"Oh, Ryan," Theresa laughs, throwing her arm over his shoulders as they start to walk home, "what are we going to do with you?" They travel in companionable silence for several blocks before Theresa lets her arm trail slowly off Ryan's shoulder and down his arm, slipping her hand into his. Ryan smirks at her, but accepts her grasp and laces his fingers around hers.

The closer they get to home, the quieter and more withdrawn Ryan seems to become. Theresa notes the way his shoulders slump and his feet begin to drag. She wonders if he even realizes he's doing it. She keeps his hand locked in her own, and as they walk onward her eyes begin to flit upward from the ground to the back of his neck, and the left side of his face underneath his eye. The redness she noticed earlier in the day has become darker, more defined, and Theresa knows from experience that by morning they'll be patches of vivid black and blue. She understands now why he so badly wanted to skip classes this afternoon.

Now that she's noticed, now that she's sure, she can't seem to stop staring at him. His eyes dart nervously back and forth as he glances at her and away again, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her gaze. Finally, he pulls her to a stop, and turns to face her.

"What?"

"Ryan...." She pauses, then takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. "You know what."

Ryan stars at her for a long moment, almost glaring, then relents, sighing.

"Yeah. I know."

"So this Roger guy, he's…?"

"He's a douche-bag? Yet another mean drunk? Yeah."

"Ryan," she starts, cautiously, knowing this is the one subject on which she must tread lightly, even with him, "don't you think you should… maybe, you know…"

"No," he cuts her off forcefully, spits the word out through clenched teeth, his eyes hard. "It's nothing I can't handle." Theresa drops his hand and folds her arms tightly around her midsection as she bites her lower lip, and Ryan immediately looks guilty, softens his tone, and gives her a wry smile.

"Besides," he starts again, giving her a playful shove, "it's almost summer. Then we can stay out a lot longer. I can come over to your place a lot, or we can go out and be gone until late. When I'm not in school my mom doesn't really care as much if I'm around. I don't know… I guess she doesn't feel the need to be as 'parental' when I'm not going to school every day."

Theresa shoves him back and twists her face into a smile, retorting, "You're _not_ going to school every day," but there's something uncertain, almost wary in her eyes that makes Ryan nervous.

"What is it, Theresa?" She stalls, looks intently at the ground, then raises her eyes to meet his.

"It's just that… well… You know my cousin Camilla, who lives in San Bernardino? She has this friend, Jessie, and Jessie's grandparents own a ranch in Arizona."

"Yeah. And?"

"And, well… her grandparents, they really need help every summer on the ranch, and Jessie goes and spends every summer with them. And… well, her grandparents are getting older now and they need even more help, and Camilla went with her last summer, and is going to stay there this summer, and… um… I asked her about it and she asked Jessie and Jessie was going to ask her grandparents and… I…I might be going, too."

"To a ranch?"

"Yeah."

"In Arizona?"

"Yeah."

"All summer?"

"Well… for at least a couple months, anyway."

Ryan pauses, unsure how to deal with this new information.

"For what?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why do they need help?"

"Help with the _horses_, Ryan! It's a _horse_ ranch."

"Help with the horses," Ryan deadpans.

"Oh, come on, Ryan! You're not really _that_ thick! Yes, help with the horses. They need to be fed, and cleaned, and brushed, and they need exercise. There're like, 30 of them, or more, out there. Camilla says they need to get used to being around people again, so they catch them and lead them around places, and a bunch of them need to be ridden. Can't you imagine it? How _amazing _would it be to live on a horse ranch in Arizona, and wrangle a bunch of horses and ride them around the desert, just like a real _caballera_!"

Ryan knows that Theresa is just like almost every other girl in the world… horse crazy. He can see it in her room. There are pictures of horses scattered everywhere, a framed painting of wild mustangs sprints across her bedroom wall, photos cut out from magazines are tacked onto a piece of corkboard, a tattered old two-pocket folder, unused since the fourth or fifth grade, sticks out from behind Theresa's desk, the wide brown eyes of a palomino filly gazing up from it's surface. Ryan can see it in her room and in her eyes right now as she talks about the possibilities for the summer, her entire body radiating excitement.

"Yeah," he finally comments. "That sounds… cool." He remains quiet while Theresa goes on, talking about the horses they have there, and what her life would be like if she lived on the ranch, and all the stories she's heard from Camilla about the summer her cousin spent there. After a minute, Ryan interjects, confused.

"Get used to people… again?" he says.

"What?" Theresa stops, unsure just where Ryan's focus has been drawn.

"You said… you said that the horses need to get used to being around people _again_."

"Didn't I tell you? It's a horse _rescue_!" Theresa positively beams.

"What do you mean, rescue? Like a dog pound or something?"

Theresa laughs aloud and swats Ryan in the arm, grinning.

"You really are something, Ryan," she snorts. When she sees he's still staring at her, confused, she continues. "A horse rescue… a ranch that rescues horses from abuse and neglect. Sometimes they take in animals from shelters. Sometimes they seize them from abusive homes. Sometimes their owners give them up because they can't take care of them anymore.

"Either way, the horses come to the ranch, and most of them are in pretty bad shape. They're really beat up, or skinny, or sick. Most of them are terrified of people, because they've been mistreated so badly. Jessie's grandparents take them in and feed them, and give them medicine, and help them recover."

"And the horses," Ryan says, wanting to follow, "they get better?"

"Most of the time, yeah. Sometimes it takes a while."

"Because they're really sick?" Ryan asks.

"Usually," corrects Theresa, "because they're really scared. They don't trust people anymore, because they've been kicked around so much. But then they come to the ranch, and everyone is really patient and kind, and is really quiet around them, and they get food and shelter and unconditional love, and eventually, they learn to trust again."

"Just like that?" Ryan asks her.

"Well, I don't think it's really _quite_ that easy. Camilla told me that last summer, they brought in this horse they called Tornado. He came from a slaughterhouse and he was skinny and beat up and mean. He was so scared of people that any time anyone would try to come near him he would spin in circles, over and over again, and if someone got close enough to touch him he'd kick and bite. But they kept working with him, again and again, and by the end of the summer, they could get a rope around him and lead him to and from the pasture. Sometimes, Camilla said they could even pet him."

"That doesn't sound like much," says Ryan.

"I don't know… Camilla talks about it like a huge success. I guess if you take a horse from crazy spinning and biting to letting you lead him around, that's a pretty big change. Camilla said Jessie talked to her grandparents about him a couple weeks ago, and they're even starting to ride him a little now. He's turning out to be really great."

"Huh. That's cool, I guess. So… a summer on the ranch. That'd be… great, for you. You'd have a really great time."

"Yeah," agrees Theresa. She sighs heavily as she looks at Ryan, scuffing the toes of his boots against the pavement. "But it would suck spending the whole summer without you. I mean, come on," she laughs. "What would you do without me?"

"I dunno… Trey and 'Turo are around. I guess I'd hang with them. Wouldn't be so bad, as long as I stay away from the house. Two whole months, huh?"

"Something like that. I don't really know anything specific."

"When would you leave?"

"I don't know. Camilla said she'd talk to Jessie about it, then I'll talk to my mom." She and Ryan are both quite for a minute, Theresa squinting up at the sky, Ryan focused intently on the ground below. After a beat she sighs again, taking Ryan by the hand as they continue to walk home.

"It's getting late," mutters Ryan, one eye warily trained on the setting sun. He drops her hand as they near their street. "I should probably run the rest of the way. You know… so… just… because."

"Yeah," Theresa agrees, sadly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know. I'll see you tomorrow?"

_If I make it to tomorrow,_ Ryan thinks, but instead he smiles at her and replies, "Meet me on the corner at eight?"

"It's a date," grins Theresa, watching as Ryan takes off sprinting towards home.

Later that evening, Ryan sits propped up in bed, nursing his ribs and holding an uncapped beer bottle to his eye—the only substitute for ice he could find. He knows if Roger finds him with the beer he'll take a second beating tonight, but right now he's beyond caring. He watches the shadows from the trees outside sway across his bedroom wall in the wind, illuminated by the streetlamp outside, as his conversation with Theresa swirls in his mind.

An overwhelming sadness has settled on him…. Not because Theresa could be gone for months, but because spending the summer on a horse ranch is just another dream, and deep down, they both know she won't.

//////////

Ryan rolls over, suddenly, jerked awake from his memories by the Captain's sharp little ears digging painfully into his side. When had he shifted to his side? he wonders, lifting the horse into his hands. The horse's eyes bore into him, suggesting, again, _even horses can change._

Shades of that day spent with Theresa come rushing back to him, her voice echoing softly in his mind. _They don't trust people anymore, because they've been kicked around so much. _

…_they come to the ranch, and everyone is really patient and kind… and they get food and shelter and unconditional love, and eventually, they learn to trust again_.

…_they kept working with him, again and again…. _

_He's turning out to be really great._

The Captain continues to stare at him, seems to smirk, saying, _See? What did I tell you?_ Ryan wonders if it's really that easy, if that's really all it takes.

_No. It's not easy. But it's possible._ _It's possible. And that's what counts, right?_

Okay, Ryan relents, running his forefinger gently down the Captain's forehead, horses can change. But… I'm not a horse.

_No, you're not_.

So… what does that mean?

_It means you're human. You're only human. But… you can change, too._

Ryan stares at the ceiling, holding Captain Oats lightly against his chest. He thinks about how much his life has changed already, in just a few short months. He lives in a poolhouse, with tile flooring and a bed and his own bathroom, and he has more than two pairs of jeans and can go swimming whenever he wants. There's always food in the house, his favorites kinds of cereal and bagels and soda, and dinner is something that happens every night now. He's attending a private high school, and getting good grades, and someone actually _cares_ that he goes every day, that he gets his homework done.

The Cohen's care….

He has the Cohen's, too.

Ryan smiles slightly at himself, the Captain still locked in his hands… _food and shelter and unconditional love_. It's what he has, right here, now. And as Ryan finally being to drift to sleep, his eyelids sliding shut, he sighs, reassured, thinking over and over, _they learn to trust again._

_//////////  
_

The next morning, Seth is rubbing sleep from his eyes as he pulls milk from the fridge when Ryan enters the kitchen. He's already dressed. He looks… tired. Tired, but somehow, content. His awkward evasiveness from last night is gone, replaced by something Seth's tempted to call confidence, a brand of self-assuredness he's not sure he's seen before. He gives Ryan a pointed look, but Ryan waves him off as Kirsten and Sandy enter.

"Hey kid! You're ready to go early this morning! How'd you sleep?"

"Okay," Ryan states. Then, "Actually, not great."

If Sandy is shocked to hear this frank admission, he hides it admirably. "Rough night, eh? A lot of homework?"

"No, just thinking… about… things."

Sandy immediately understands, because, really, how couldn't he? He fumbles over words, trying to choose the best phrase for this particular situation, frantically debating whether he should bring up yesterday's "incident" or speak in tongues when Kirsten interjects, stepping in front of Sandy to grab a box of Cap'n Crunch from the cabinet.

"I have nights like that, too, sometimes," she says, handing the box to Ryan and ruffling his hair. "Coffee?"

"Yeah," Ryan smiles. "That'd be great. I could use it."

"Well, it's Friday, anyway," Sandy finally spits out, grateful for his wife's tactful handling of the situation. "You'll be able to catch up on your sleep over the weekend."

//////////

Later that morning, Sandy and Kirsten both leave for work, smiling broadly at one another, because Ryan, for the first time, openly admitted to them that he hadn't slept well, and they both know they're a little bit closer to him than before, measuring the progress of their relationship by each piece of honest self-admission that he shares.

And Seth, exiting the bathroom after his shower, finds Captain Oats back on sentinel and Ryan leaning in his doorway, giving him a wry half-smile, and saying, simply, "Thanks."

"You, uh… you doing a little better, man?" he asks, cautiously.

"I will be after you put some clothes on," Ryan snarks, grinning as he throws a t-shirt at Seth's chest. "Come on, we're going to be late. Marissa should be here soon. I want to see her this morning. Your parent's have family night planned for tonight."

"Ooh…" Seth sucks air in through his teeth. "The infamous family movie night. On a Friday? Why couldn't the parental units have scheduled it for a school night? We're social pariahs as it is," he moans. "Whose turn is it to pick?"

"Mine."

"Seriously? I have to wait _another_ week to pick? Well, bro, I guess it's only fair. Every dog has his day, everybody in the family gets their week, yaddah yaddah. But, dude, you're not going to choose some really lame documentary are you?" he asks, pulling his shirt over his head.

"I was thinking about a period piece. Historical fiction."

"Agh! Kill me now, Ryan. Just go ahead and kill me now."

"Oh, come on, Seth. It won't be that bad."

"You know what, my good sir, you should be thanking me for my excellent generosity. Before you came along I got to choose every third week. Now I suffer an entire month on your behalf," Seth groans as he shoves his books into his backpack and enters the hallway.

"Shut up, Seth," laughs Ryan, shoving him against the wall as they make their way downstairs. "It's family time. Enjoy it."

Seth stares at him hard, thinking about the night before, and the Captain, and Ryan's strangely surprisingly forthright behavior, before grinning and throwing up his hands. "Alright, man. You win. You pick, I suffer. But I _will _make you pay for it next week."

"Yeah," Ryan sighs, smiling slightly to himself. "There's no doubt in my mind about _that._"


End file.
